


Lemon

by queensglaives



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Food Fights, Gender-neutral Reader, M/M, first work in this fandom, there aren't actually any archive warnings i just like the little orange box
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 07:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13313574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queensglaives/pseuds/queensglaives
Summary: Because even if Ignis Scientia is occasionally rigid and stern, he can never be either with you.And maybe it’s particularly because you're rowdy and mischievous, you can never not drag Ignis into your nonsense.





	Lemon

**Author's Note:**

> [its rihanna nigga](https://youtu.be/FL4OXQAFBHY)

So. You weren't the best at maths in school but you know this much you know is true: a perfect boyfriend plus a last-minute birthday cake (with Rihanna added for good measure) isn't necessarily the most efficient equation. Not when you're involved, at least.

 

Because even if Ignis Scientia is occasionally rigid and stern, he can never be either with you.

 

And maybe it’s particularly because you're rowdy and mischievous, you can never not drag Ignis into your nonsense.

 

Which is how the two of you end up in the Citadel kitchen, Ignis slaving over a lemon buttercream cake for King Regis’ fiftieth birthday dinner tonight, you serving as a distraction.

 

Being you, you're not helping. Not...obviously, at least. At the moment, your support is being manifested by dancing around the kitchen to “You Da One” while Ignis does his best to tenderly block you out. His concentration is good, but you're magnetic.

 

In any case, he manages to take out the cake out and take it to an adjacent counter without incident.

 

....only to turn around find you sitting on the counter, trying to eat the last of batter.

 

There's quite a bit of it-- in his stressed baking frenzy, Ignis over measured only to end up with almost enough batter to make another cake.

 

And while he appreciates that you're trying to help him clean, he also feels that eating uncooked batter while sitting on the counter like some sort of salmonella goblin isn't exactly helpful.

 

He stalks back over to you with a sigh, a sigh of a man twenty years past his true age. “Love...please give me the batter.”

 

“Nah.”

 

He has to hide a grin, a sassy salmonella goblin you may be, but you're sure as hell a cute one.

 

“I'm serious, darling.” He makes a grab for the bowl, only to get a “fuck-you-thought” look from you when you pull it back towards you. “Do you _want_ to get sick?”

 

“Only if you're taking care of me,” you purr, batting your eyelashes.

 

“I assure you,” he says grimly as he continues the struggle for the bowl, “I will not be taking care of you if you purposely give yourself food poisoning.’

 

You giggle, much to Ignis’ disdain, but levity aside, you aren't letting go of the batter.

 

“I insist you put that down, I wouldn't want you getting--”

 

“Salmonella? I don't know her!”

 

It's at that moment that Ignis relinquishes control of the bowl, because he knows there's no arguing or reasoning with you.

 

Unfortunately, you didn't get the memo about not having to pull the bowl back towards you, and you end up with lemon shortcake all over your chest.

 

You shriek his name before he can apologize and add, “This is Versace, asshole!” for good measure.

 

“‘Vers-’ I was with you when you purchased that shirt, love. From a thrift sh--”

 

You hop of the counter and cut him off with a swift but gentle handful of whipped cream to the face. How he didn't notice you scooping a veritable mountain of the stuff from the tub, you’re not sure, but the surprised look on his pretty face makes you outright cackle.

 

And okay, maybe Ignis might have been a little unaware of his surroundings, but you're even worse. ‘Cause you're so busy laughing at his shocked expression that you don't notice that he grabs the one-half cup of extra milk until pours it over your head.

 

The two of you stare at each other, wondering where the hell you found each other and how the other got the nerve.

 

“You should stop while you're ahead,” Ignis advises you.

 

You give him your best Kubrick stare (well, the best one you can manage with milk dripping from your hair). “Merch.”

 

You break the relative peace-- as you often do-- but this time, you do so by tossing a handful of flour in his face. He grins wickedly and gives you a messy kiss that succeeds and spreading some of the whipped cream from your earlier in your face.

 

The laugh you break into is loud, and apparently infectious, because Ignis lets out a little undignified snort as he retaliates by sprinkling sugar over your head.

 

(You really wish he'd stop using his height as an advantage as opposed to actually putting in hard work, like you are.)

 

You take his hands, the two of you a mess of milk, sugar, flour, and ridiculous, goofy love for each other. Drunk on the music and his affection, you follow Pharrell's example and start literally bouncing up and down to the beat of the song. You expect him to roll his eyes affectionately, maybe kiss the tip of your nose and call you silly but, instead, he gives you the biggest smile you've ever seen and starts jumping with you.

 

Unlike literally _everything_ else the man does, there's no rhyme or reason or even any rhythm to your silly little dance, just two young adults acting like teenagers.

 

And it's during your collective bouncing that Regis walks in.

 

Okay, so you're not on a first name basis with him. Or a last-name basis, even.

 

But you are on the basis of dancing with his son’s advisor in the middle of a room that's more war zone than kitchen at this point.

 

Regis’ eyes flicker from the eggshells on the floor to the milk in your hair to the buttercream in Ignis’ bangs and then to you and Iggy’s clasped hands.

 

And then--

 

And _then_?

 

The king of the goddamned nation _smirks_ at you.

 

“Ignis. Ignis’ Troublemaker,” he says simply before taking his leave.

 

The sigh of relief Ignis lets out is probably loud enough to rouse the other one hundred twelve kings of Lucis and the sleeping prince upstairs

 

“I'm sorry, Iggy,” you tell him. You know how much his career means to him, and even if he needed to let loose, you feel bad for putting him a bad position.

 

“It's alright, dear. I started it, if you recall.”

 

You pluck his glasses of off his face and clean them with the hem of your shirt. “Technically, it's Rihanna’s fault.” You admire your boyfriend’s bare face before gently sliding his frosting-free glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

 

“I'll be sure to take it up with her the next time we talk.”

 

You roll your eyes- he's so lame, but are you any better, really?

 

You grab a mop from the corner of the kitchen and start pushing some of the milk into into one big puddle in the middle of the from, which isn't really helpful but--

 

“Wait one fucking minute.”

 

Ignis turns to you, raises a brow.

 

“Do the bitches up here actually call me your troublemaker?” you demand.

 

To his credit, he doesn't laugh. No, instead, he wipes a bit of buttercream off your cheek-- a band-aid over a bullet wound at this point, your face is still a mess-- and grins at you. Stealing a word from your vocabulary, Ignis Scientia, perfect boyfriend and food fighter extraordinaire murmurs, “Merch.”

**Author's Note:**

> hmu @ queensglaives, requests are open


End file.
